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A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

—Robert Frost

I misunderstood silence for disapproval, temporary for permanent.

I see now it was only the unstrained sound of my rapidly beating heart that you were trying to hear. 

I stripped down and turned the heat up for the water but it was never hot enough to drive away the shivers the thought of you gave me. 

I am walking down the road, the strong wind in my hair and thinking of a happy poem about walking with you like knotted rope. 

I left my coat behind, I thought I'd see you somewhere along the way. 

I love stories, I go to a bookstore and see you sitting on a shelf. 

I can only pray that it is not the one I struggle to follow, but the one that gives me company in the small spot of sun in the park on a cold day.